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Rhymes and 
Reveries 



By 
Thomas J. Pratt 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOStr 



Rhymes and 
Reveries 



THOMAS J. PRATT 



Published in loving remembrance 
by his daughter, Edna R. Lyon 



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And one hath had the vision 

face-to-face; 
And now his chair desires 

him here in vain^ 
However they may crown 

him other where. 

—THE HOLY GRAIL 



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PHOTO BY C. D. PRATT 



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He Would Have Told You 

In my Father's house are many mansions. If it 
were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare 
a place for you. 

He would have told you, for he knew 

Who saw in darkness as in light, 
Read hearts as open books, and through 

The past and future, from the height 
Of his divinity, saw all — 

He knew the secrets of the life 
Veiled from the present by death's pall, — 

That world with solemn mysteries rife. 

He would have told you: know ye not, 

Trusted companions of your Lord, 
His Tabor raiment without spot, 

In which, — while awe-struck ye adored, — 
With Israel's grandest saints he spake. 

Not whiter than his truth did shine? 
No flattering words, though hearts might break. 

E'er dimmed his truthfulness divine. 

He would have told you: could the love 

That breathed in his sweet parting prayer 
Have lured your hopes from earth above. 

Had he not known of mansions there? 
Nay, faithful band, sorely bereft. 

Doubt not your Master's promise bright. 
Receive the Comforter he left. 

And scale by faith the heavenly height. 

Look upward, weary, homeless one! 
He will "prepare a place for you." 
With doubts that cloud the view, have done! 

[5] 



He saw your doubts, and answered, too. 
Not poetry the heavenly hope; 

Somewhere Home is, — a blissful spot; 
Let faith no more in darkness grope. 

He would have told you were it not. 



A Poor Rich Man 

Within a paradise, where lofty trees 

Fleck with their shade green lawns and winding 
ways, 
Where rarest flowers with fragrance lade the breeze, 

And fountains' spray the summer heat allays. 

A mansion, granite-built yet graceful stands, 
Its broad verandahs wooing to repose. 

Its crystal windows, draped by skillful hands, 
A fairy sceniEyS^f luxury disclose. 

Here lives a poor man — pitiably poor. 

"What! Is it Ifio't his' palace that we see?" 
He calls it his, but hardly less the boor 

Enjoys it, gazing open-mouthed, than he. 

On downy bed he tosses with unrest; 

With choicest viands fed he loathes his food; 
In these enchanting scenes he finds no zest. 

But parleys with his thoughts — an odious brood. 

Ill-gotten wealth upon his conscience weighs; 

Hypocrite friends he greets with wolfish smile; 
In selfish schemes he worries through his days; 

With revels strives his evenings to beguile. 

Beauty he views with jealousy or pride; 

The works of God to him no God reveal; 
Within his house no homely joys abide; 

His heart is closed — no Saviour comes to heal. 
[6] 



Thus, in the midst of God's abundant gifts, 
His senses dulled by selfishness and sin. 

He lives a pauper here, nor ever lifts 

The eye of faith a heavenly home to win. 



A Rich Poor Man 

A humble toiler for his daily bread 

Dwells in a low and weather beaten cot. 

This little cottage is his all, 'tis said; 
I know that lands or money he has not. 

Yet is he rich — the richest man I know. 

A healthy body and a healthy soul 
Appropriate God's blessings here below, 

And living in this world he owns the whole. 

His well-earned food its virtue all* imparts; 

The nutrient blood bears vigor through his veins; 
Sweeter than wines from famed Iljerian marts. 

Pure air, in copious draughts, his life sustains. 

A healthful weariness affords sweet sleep, 
All undisturbed by anxious cares or fears; 

His eye is bright, his voice is clear and deep, 

Good cheer adds health, while health his spirit 
cheers. 

A loving wife his toil and comfort shares, 
And ruddy children climb upon his knee; 

The aged grandam blesses in her prayers 
The noble man her son has lived to be. 

The plants in his small garden feel the care 

Of strong and loving hands, and bloom as bright, 

.'\nd shed as sweet a fragrance on the air, 

As if on palace grounds they drank the light. 

[7] 



For him each wild flower lifts its modest face, 
And e'en his neighbor's garden pays him toll; 

He views their beauty, and his heart can trace 
In every flower God's message to his soul. 

Aurora's first faint smile, her brightening face, 
Her crimson roses, and her robes of gold: 

The gorgeous scene as Phoebus ends his race, 
And ever-changing glories are unrolled; 

The dreamy blue of distant hills, and near, 

The rugged, rock-crowned mount; the motley blaze 

Of autumn's world; the dew-drop's glistening tear; 
The silver sheen on rippling lake that plays — 

These are his pictures. And the forest rings 

For him with songs of praise. The storm's loud tone 

Is a grand organ peal. But sweetest sings 
His wife her lullaby — the theme love's own. 

A few good books he has, oft read and well — 
The Bible chief, next Nature, book divine. 

A few true friends, whose love obeys no spell 
Of rank or fortune, sit beneath his vine. 

But, richer treasure, in his bosom dwells 
The Friend of friends, and spreads a feast of love; 

Content to wealth his earthly substance swells. 
And faith gives title to a home above. 



The Abandoned Homestead 

Our home, our childhood's home is dead! 

Its windows stare like sightless eyes; 
Its soul of kindred-love has fled; 

The death-damp on its timbers lies. 

[8] 



Its broad, smooth fields the story tell 
Of sturdy manhood's toil and care, 

Its ample frame attests as well, 
'Twas not a little soul dwelt there. 

The crumbling chimney-top no more 
Exhales the glowing fire-place' breath; 

Nor could the fireside's warmth restore 
His great warm heart, now cold in death. 

By memory's light I still can see, 
Within that window 'neath the vine, 

A placid face, sweeter to me 
Than any other not divine, 

And through the panes to left and right, 
In little frames of eight by ten. 

The children's smiling faces bright. 
Her children, women now and men. 

I see her sitting, older grown. 
Her knitting resting on her knee. 

Sitting tranquil there alone, 

Looking, but seeming not to see — 

Looking afar toward the hills 

And evening sky — bidding her time. 

The bright hope soothing all her ills, 
Of meeting in another clime. 

These walls once echoed father's tread; 

These aged trees he planted all; 
This tottering barn and falling shed 

Sleek cattle entered at his call. 

Yon straggling rose bush once was trained 
And pruned by mother's tasteful hand; 

And order once, and beauty reigned. 

Where hollyhocks 'mid rank weeds stand. 

[9] 



Stately the mansion o'er the way, 
Of him who owns the dear old farm, 

Yet, sing its praise who ever may. 
Its grandeur has for me no charm. 

This mossy ruin has my heart; 

From every casement, every nook. 
Beloved forms to being start, 

And angel eyes upon me look. 



Chautauqua in Winter 

How mute is the air that was vocal erewhile 
With wisdom, with wit, and with song! 

As the forest leaves vanished with summer's bright 
smile. 
From these avenues vanished the throng. 

The bare branches sigh, and snow crystals fly, 
Where the grateful breeze cooled the hot brow; 

And the lake, whose blue waters charmed every eye, 
A dreary white plain stretches now. 

In the great amphitheatre weird silence sits. 
In the college the sage owl might dwell. 

And the Hall of Philosophy's structure befits 
Its deserted appearance full well. 

Rows of tenantless cottages, silent as tombs. 

Make the heart of the visitor chill, 
And Hotel Athenaeum in stern grandeur looms, 

But no guests come its chambers to fill. 

Yet the smoke of a home curls aloft here and there. 

And a few peaceful faces appear, 
And the traveler finds, if he searches with care. 

That some thorough Chautauquans live here. 

[10] 



Chautauqua's not dead — only waiting the tide 
That flows in at the noon of the year; 

And ten thousands of hearts, now dispersed far and 
wide, 
Beat with her's as do loving hearts here. 

Far away to the southward the sun has begun 

To climb up the sky day by day. 
The clock at the wharf strikes the hours one by one 

That measure the summer's delay; 

While in numberless homes students treasure these 
hours. 
With the breath of Chautauqua inspired — 
Cheerful minds, with each day increasing their 
powers, 
And e'er with new graces attired. 

All things wait and make ready: the buds on the 
trees 

That a gorgeous pavilion will spread; 
The lake that, set free, soon will dance in the breeze, 

And the fleets that its waters will wed; 

The temples where wisdom shall mingle her wines, 
The homes for the thousands — but chief, 

The brain of Chautauqua matures her designs, 
And the rolling year is but too brief, 

For her brain, and her heart, and her hundred strong 
arms, 

To provide all she wishes her guests 

Of purest enjoyment, instruction that charms, 

Priceless friendships, and labor that rests. 



The Sugar Grove 

'Tis time to tap the sugar trees. 
Promise of life is in the breeze; 
Majestic from his tropic goal 

[11] 



The fervid sun moves toward the pole; 
His midday beams dissolve the snow, 
Even while northern breezes blow. 

The maples feel the sun's warm kiss, 

And hear the robin's song of bliss. 

Upward through stem, and branch and spray 

The sweet life-current finds its way. 

Oho! the happy moment seize! 

At last 'tis time to tap the trees. 

How well do we remember, Ned, 
The gay, romantic life we led 
In the old grove of maples grand. 
Whose lofty, branching arches spanned 
A sheltered nook where, wide and deep. 
The kettle hung from rustic sweep. 

Who but a farmer boy can know 
How strangely, when with rapid flow 
Great drops of nectar gleam and fall. 
Excitement seizes one and all, — 
How near fond nature seems to him 
Whose cup she fills up to the brim. 

With hurrying feet we trod the snow, 
Burdened with neck-yoke, to and fro. 
Emptying buckets brimming o'er, — 
Having too much, yet wishing more, — 
Rolled the huge back-logs into place. 
Heaped fuel near with reeking face. 

Now roars the fire, and foaming high, 
The liquid takes a deeper dye; 
The fragrant vapor sweeter grows; 
And, as the wind inconstant blows. 
With seeming purpose to amuse 
The veering smoke the swain pursues. 

[12] 



Full many an evening we have sat 
Before the fire in jovial chat, 
Or listened to the tinkling drops, 
And gazed upon the great tree tops, 
Which o'er the moon their fingers spread, 
Who, peering through, a soft light shed. 

And one such night the full moon shone 
Upon two dark eyes not our own. 
From whose rich depths a purer light, 
And softer, gleamed upon the night; 
For, looking in your own, dear Ned, 
The light of love those dark eyes shed. 

O, the rare flavor, quickly flown, 
Of the fresh sirup! They alone 
Who taste it new its mysteries prove. 
So the rare charm of youthful love — 
Though love's as sweet in after years — 
With youth's decadence disappears. 

The noble trees we knew by name 
Have fallen, save one towering frame 
That, stripped of verdure, stands to show 
How puerile the growth below; 
But memory still is fain to dwell 
Within the grove we loved so well. 



The Torture of Smith 
at Paris, Texas 

O, horror! horror! read it not aloud; 

Destroy the sheet before the children come. 
For burning shame let patriot heads be bowed; 

Let justice wake, and boasting lips be dumb. 

[13] 



Is this Columbia? Are we civilized? 

Was there not found in all that furious throng 
One gleam of reason? Was there none who prized 

Our chartered rights, or wished not wrong for 
wrong? 

"Peace! 'twas a fell, a fiendish crime that brought 
Dire and swift vengeance on the heartless brute." 

Such savagery on fiend infernal wrought 

Were crime too rank for censure to be mute. 

Can Christian men in this enlightened age 
Afford a lapse to worse than pagan hate? 

Can human hearts besot themselves with rage. 
And not to brutish nature gravitate? 

"Ah, well; but justice is too often blind, 
And retribution, if it comes, too slow. 

To strike with fear such scum of human kind. 
And ward from innocence the deadly blow." 

Is there no blindness in a raging mob? 

Is innocence secure with law dethroned? 
Have we less fear when thousand bosoms throb 

With murder that one crime may be atoned? 

O, long shall Paris bear the brand of shame; 

Long shall our flag be blackened with disgrace; 
But deeper wrong is ours than sullied name — 

Freedom is wounded. Justice hides her face. 



Charge of the Eighth Pennsylvania 
Cavalry at Chancellorsville 

M5d the rustle of oak leaves, the sighing of the pines. 

The right of the great army lay. 
And listened the storm on the left of the lines 

Fiercely threatening, yet still far away. 
[14] 



Girt with low thickets dense, 
Held in painful suspense, 
They endured the long hours of the day. 

Yet at midday was seen a great serpentine train, 

Winding o'er a bare hill to the front. 
Was it Jackson retreating, the strife being vain? 
Ah, no; do ye not know his wont? 
Why loiter ye there? 
Your right's "in the air!" 
Guard the flank! The right flank takes the brunt! 

Still a sense of security, fatally blind. 

Kept the line of defense scarce improved. 
Till, his course unobserved, his intent undivined, 
Past the front "Stonewall" Jackson had moved, 
Loud tow'rd Fredericksburg, then. 
Roared Lee's cannon again. 
And his hazard had wise forethought proved. 

For, sudden and terrible, burst on the flank 

A wild cyclone of jubilant rage. 
Sweeping pickets like straws, crowding closely each 
rank. 
So that few in defense could engage. 
Panic, fold upon fold. 
Back on Chancellorsville rolled, 
Seeming ruinous rout to presage. 

In the midst of this turmoil, as Pleasanton toiled, 

A few guns in position to place. 
For the lack of a moment he must have been foiled — 
For the enemy rushed on apace — 
Had not some daring blow 
Checked the march of the foe — 
A sad sternness came over his face. 

[15] 



Shall he rescue the army, or spare a brave few? 

Naught can save but a sheer sacrifice. 
He must make it! To Keenan, unflinchingly true, 
Comes an order that all his soul tries: 
"Charge the foe with your men." 
He'd not one to their ten! 
Oh, what a smile lighted his eyes! 

Sweetly sad, sadly strange, strangely bitter that 
smile, 
Recognizing his general's aim; 
Flaming up like the light of the funeral pile 
Of his loves, of his hopes, of his name; 
Showing duty still lives. 
Love of country survives — 
All else died when that stern order came. 

"I will do it," his smiling, his only reply. 

Then, cheering his brave little band. 
Having drained death's cup, fearing no longer to die, 
On he rode, at full speed, sword in hand. 
On they rode, those brave men, 
Less than one against ten, 
For their comrades to die, and their land. 

As a bucket of water, dashed on a great fire, 

Checks one moment the surge of the flame. 
But is vapor the next, and the blaze mounts still 
higher. 
So they hurled back the foe as they came. 
And wherever they dashed, 
And their burnished blades flashed. 
Deeds were wrought well deserving loud fame; 

So wasted this troop in the battle's fierce heat. 
Hardly half of their number remained. 

And their brave leader lay 'neath the hurrying feet 
Of the foe; but their valor had gained 

[16] 



Time to load — that was all — 
But the dread cannon-ball, 
Grape, and canister, more time obtained. 

Time to rally the fugitives, order restore, 

Seize positions, plant guns, form the line; 
And our army was saved from destruction once 
more. 
With a light only less than divine. 
In the temple of fame, 
Shall the glorious name 
Of the Eighth Pennsylvania shine! 



Welcome Peace 



Loud roars the angry tempest through the wood, 
Pressed by its might the great trees writhe and 
groan. 

The oak, that firm for centuries has stood. 
Twisted in twain, a ruin vast, lies prone. 

And lither trees bow low their lofty heads, 
And struggle long in anguish ere they rise, 

While the alarmed and awed beholder dreads 
Each fiercer gust, and from the forest hies. 

Swift driven o'er hill and plain, a blinding cloud 
Of fine-wrought snow makes dark the frozen air. 

Inflicting torture on the mortal proud 

That dares his forehead to the storm to bare. 

Blockaded in his home the farmer dwells. 
The ways abandoned quite, save that a few. 

Whom sickness or necessity compels. 

Urge on their floundering beasts, and wallow 
through. 

[17] 



Though stabled well, the cattle shivering stand, 
His groom's caress the testy colt resents. 

The sluggard husbandman, with ice-cold hand, 
Tardy the penetrating wind prevents. 

The hardy snow-birds flock about the yard, 

With scattered seeds their hunger fain to allay. 

Or, happy in the little girl's regard. 

Feast at the kitchen door this gloomy day. 

For many days, with chilling ice-charged breath, 
And boisterous rage, the storm king spreads his 
blight; 

Animate nature, threatened thus with death. 
Resists, with all her life-force, his dread might. 

Weary at length, the storm king bates his wrath. 
And countless downy messengers in white 

Fall softly, gently, in the tempest's path, 
Proclaiming truce, and everywhere alight. 

All night on silent wings to earth they fly, 

And when the morning dawns upon the scene. 

Peace! Peace! is written plainly on the sky. 
Peace! on the landscape beauteous and serene. 

By clouds in gold and crimson heralded, 

The sun in oriental splendor comes. 
And, far as heaven's wrathful scourge has sped, 
Dispenses light and warmth, and cheers our homes. 

And all the expectant landscape, pure and white, 
Soft-moulded as a virgin robed in down, 

At his appearance flashes back his light 

From myriad, myriad gems that deck her gown. 

The weary trees bask in the sun's mild rays, 
The imprisoned cattle joy in their release, 

All nature utters her Preserver's praise. 

All creatures breathe the balmy air of peace! 

[18] 



Agatha 



Down an alley foul and dark. 

Where through dingy, crumbling walls, 
Want and woe and rusting cark 

Dank exude, and vice appalls, 
Walks a lady whose pure face 

Clarifies the sin-cursed air; 
Whose sweet smile lights up the place 

Like a sunbeam straying there. 

Basket-laden, simply clad. 

Enters she the homes of woe — 
Homes of good and homes of bad — 

Gifts of mercy to bestow; 
Shrinks not with averted face. 

Curling lip and dainty dread; 
Stoops not with a haughty grace. 

As who gives a pauper bread. 

Like a friend among her friends, 

With a mother's gentle care 
And a sister's loving hands — 

Like an angel everywhere — 
Agatha brings timely gifts, 

Comfort brings to those in need, 
Tenderly the fallen lifts, 

Godward seeks the blind to lead. 

No conspicuous badge she wears, 

To proclaim her sender's name; 
Sent of God alone, she bears 

His own token, love's soft flame. 
Flowers in her steps abound — 

Buds of virtue, hope and love. 
Clouds of incense wreathe her round — 

Prayers of prayerless, heard above. 

[19] 



The Frost 



Alas! my beautiful flower. 

Smitten with frost in an hour! 

Graceful, and fragrant, with beauty so chaste 

Meet was my opening bud to be placed 

On a saint's breast 

Sinless and blest — 
Gone from my loved garden bower! 

Just when my hope was most bright, 
Came a chill wind, and then night. 
Vainly my anxious heart lavished its care, 
Screening my plant from the pitiless air, 

While the moon rolled 

Ruthless and cold, 
And stars shone with comfortless light. 

Sunshine and warmth flood the earth, 
Verdure and bloom spring to birth; 
Yet my sweet floweret lifts not its head, 
Drooping, and faded, and withered and dead. 

I had but one, 

Now that is gone; 
I cannot tell you its worth. 

Dead, and my neighbor has three; 

Never a blossom for me. 

I should rejoice with my neighbor? I'll try. 

(E'en while I make this resolve comes a sigh.) 

O, for that spring 

Which poets sing. 
Spring-time when frosts shall not be! 



[20] 



The Nameless Grave 

Above a little mound, 

A mossy fence bends low; 

'Mid splendid monuments around, 

Upon this grave no stone is found. 

The sleeper's name to show. 

Yet on this nameless grave 

A poem may be read, 

Sweeter than Muse to man e'er gave, 

Plainer than art could e'er engrave, 

In memory of the dead. 

Inscribed by Nature's hand. 
It must be read when seen; 
Upon the priceless yard of land, 
Clusters of live-forever stand, 
In fresh, luxuriant green. 

At winter time they die. 

As did their little trust; 

Prone on the earth their dead leaves lie, 

And turn the mortal reader's eye 

Down to the sleeper's dust. 

But Nature stops not here; 

She writes another part; 

With fresher vigor these appear. 

Springs prophecy, brings heavenly cheer, 

And warms the coldest heart. 



Autobiographies 

You and I, and all are authors, 

Writing each a life. 
Tales of good or evil telling. 

Labor, ease, or strife. 

[21] 



When morn's voices call to duty, 

Each receives a leaf, 
White and clean, and ruled with minutes, 

Hours the columns brief. 

When the silent night beguiles us. 

Yields us bound to sleep 
Time, the never weary, snatches 

Every leaf to keep. 

And ere time mid countless, waiting 

Ages shall be mazed. 
Plainly bound, shall every volume 

From the past be raised. 

Then, O, what a faultless Critic 

Shall our writings view. 
And before how vast an audience 

Shall He read them through. 

Brother, pause! what are you writing? 

Bring it to heaven's light; 
Seem to hear that voices proclaim it, 

Worlds within your sight. 

Do you write of toil for pleasure, 
Sought through wealth or fame — 

Looking upon lands and houses; 
Listening to a name? 

See your wealth left far behind you! 

See heaven's mansions shine! 
Be ashamed and sob in anguish, 

"Sold! these are not mine!" 

Hear that name as you shall hear it. 

When first shall be last, 
When your servant shall outrank you. 

When fame has flown past. 

[22] 



Dwell the pages of your volume 

All on self the same? 
Speaks your sympathy or friendship 

Ne'er of other name? 

Read, O, read the life Jesus — 

Read it in that word — 
Jesus living, Jesus dying; 

Jesus, Pauper, Lord. 

Write a life of humble, generous, 

Loving deeds and words, 
Full of thanks to Him who ever 

Such a life rewards. 

Write with care, your pen hold steady 

Let no blot deface; 
Never idle, in your volume 

Leave no vacant space. 



White Robes 



A mother's joy, 

A father's toy, 

With shining eye, 

Blue as the sky, 

With pouting lips, and dimpled chin, 

With separate charm each heart to win, 

A guileless babe that knew not sin, 

She wore white robes. 

A maiden now, 

But with the vow 

But just unsaid. 

With which she sped 

Out from her past so pure and free, 

Pensive amid the marriage glee, 

[23] 



A faithful wife resolved to be. 
She wore white robes. 

A straightened form, 

That was not warm. 

That could not rise. 

With soulless eyes. 

Yet with a smile her lips around, 

That told of hope beyond the bound 

Of coffin bed low in the ground, 

She wore white robes. 

A saint at rest. 

Her heart possessed 

By Jesus' love, 

She reigns above, 

Where, welcomed with her Lord's "well done, 

To life which e'er is just begun. 

Now for eternity put on, 

She wears white robes. 



Conjunction of Venus and 
the Moon 

When the crimson glow of the western sky 

Was yielding to purple and gray, 
Fair Venus was seen with the Moon close by, 

And they journeyed the self-same way. 

Half concealed were they yet in the lingering light, 
And they gossiped of heroes and maids, 

Of beasts, and of monsters they'd seen in their flight. 
And gorgeous celestial parades. 

Then Luna moved slowly while Venus drew near, 
Till I looked for their loving embrace; 

But the Goddess would whisper in pale Luna's ear, 
And only came close to her face. 

[24] 



When lo! through the curtain of twilight peeped out 
Sparkling eyes here and there in the sky, 

On the mischievous purpose intent, without doubt, 
Into secrets most precious to pry. 

But Luna, the watchful, perceived their intent. 

And, taking a cloud gauzy-white, 
She drew it round both, and together they went 

Down behind the dark hills out of sight. 



The Little Builder 

Little busy, bustling neighbor. 

Toiling with unwearied wing, 
What impels you thus to labor, 

Once content to dine and sing? 
What new wish or inspiration 

Do your restless wings obey? 
What this constant occupation, 

Bearing burdens all the day? 

Ah, the secret is discovered; 

There's her mate on yonder spray; 
Near her all the morn he's hovered. 

'Tis love's instinct they obey. 
Timber for a house she's bringing. 

Fiber for her birdlings' bed, 
To and fro her swift flight winging, 

Resting not till day has fled; 

Timbers deftly interlocking, 

Weaving lining for her nest. 
That her young, with tempest rocking. 

Safe in softest bed may rest. 
Full of hope her heart is beating. 

Danger cannot reach her there; 
Bonnie brood, the summer greeting, 

Shall reward her toil and care. 

[25] 



Happy builder! wisely hidden 

Are the ills your heart must bear — 
Dread of savage guest unbidden, 

Chilling storms and meager fare, 
Tempest shock in loss resulting, 

Wily foe within your bower, 
Madd'ning anguish, foe exulting, 

Death and ruin by his power. 

Smile, O Hope; let thy bright curtain 

Veil the future with its pain; 
Sweets distill from joys uncertain, 

Rob foreboding of its bane. 
Oft enough shall future sorrow 

Cast its shadow o'er the heart, 
H thou, blessed angel, borrow 

Light from darkness with thine art. 



One Move More 

Thank fortune, we're anchored at last. 

Our possessions are heaped on the floor, 
The doors are made fast. 
And I stand here aghast, 

'Mid the wreckage of one move more. 

For the twenty-fifth time we have moved; 

The perils of passage are o'er, 
And again I have proved. 
As a wife it behooved. 

Fairly patient with one move more. 

We've had houses of wood, brick, and stone; 

Lived in flats from the first to fifth floor. 
On a prairie alone. 
In attics, unknown — 

And now we've made one move more. 

[26] 



For my husband, of genius possessed, 
Can do anything e'er done before 

As well as the best. 

And never can rest 

Without making just one move more. 

On the farm, in the shop, out at sea, 
In the mine, or the office, or store. 

At home he can be 

Yet no home gives to me, 

So oft we make one move more. 

My neighbors some thousands have been, 
Acquaintances scarce a few score. 

I only begin 

To be found by my kin. 

When the time comes for one move more. 

The furniture sadly is marred, 
Its beauty no skill can restore. 

John's books are so scarred, 

My best gown is tarred, — 
O, I cannot make one move more! 

I must scrub the old house, I suppose, 
And work till my muscles are sore 

To "settle." Who knows 

When the next wind blows. 

And we "break up" for one move more? 

O, my heart is so sick for a home. 
Such a home as my father's of yore! 

But I fear we must roam 

Till the angel shall come 

Who will bid us make one move more. 



[27] 



Bereavement 

When from a garland of children 
Death, unseen angel, takes one, 
Breaking love's tender entwinings, 
Withering the blossom begun; 
Ah! in her bosom, how keenly 
Feels the fond mother the smart; 
Deep in her bosom, how freely 
Bleeds the torn tie of her heart. 

Though every childish enchantment 
Wakens her sorrow anew 
Memory in every amusement 
Bringing her dsrling to view; 
Yet were the children remaining 
Never so fondly caressed — 
O, with what sweetly sad yearnings 
Presses she them to her breast. 

When from the arms of its mother 
Death takes the dear only child, 
Closing the sweet lips that prattled 
Dimming the bright eyes that smiled; 
Lonely, so lonely! the mother, 
Who was so lately o'erjoyed 
To her heart presses — her sorrow; 
Fondly embraces — a void. 

Dusting his crib and his carriage; 
Handling his smooth-ironed clothes, 
Kissing, and bathing with tear-drops, 
Little shoes, shaped to his toes, 
Holding with solitude converse, 
Even her grief growing dear, 
Looks she to Heaven for her darling, 
For she has no darling here. 

[28] 



The Canary Bird's Song 

Quee! Quee! listen to me, 
Just look at my house. Can a gayer one be? 
How airy, and light, how convenient, and neat. 
Beautiful! Beautiful! sweet, sweet, sweet! 
'Tis a palace all bright — 

A delight 

To the sight. 
But to-day I can see — 

Ah, me! 

Tip-a-chee — 
The great bright-hued Everywhere, flooded with gold 
And birds to its very blue dome soaring bold. 

Chip! Chip! see how I skip 

From the fount where my bill in pure water I dip, 
To my dining-room furnished with food to my taste, 
By my sweet little maid, gentle-voiced sunny-faced, 
I'm a gayly-robed king. 

And I swing, 

And I sing — 
But I hear a sweet voice 

And rejoice — 

'Tis my choice! 
There are rivers to drink and a world full of food. 
Let me go with my mate to the merry green wood. 



Interpreted 



In a strange town, I chanced to meet. 

As leisurely I walked the street, 

A burly, sullen-looking man 

Whose face a half-grown beard o'er-ran; 

Whose little eyes, a faded blue. 

The shade of shaggy brows peered through; 

[29] 



Whose whole appearance so repelled, 
That, strange to say, my gaze it held. 

I turned, forgetting it was rude, 
And, as he passed, the stranger viewed. 
No gleam of kindliness or grace 
Pierced the dull cloud upon his face. 
But as I turned there met my eye 
With nimble footsteps drawing nigh 
Two little maidens hand in hand — 
Or two sweet sprites from fairy-land. 

The younger's eyes brimmed o'er with fun; 
Her cheeks were russet with the sun; 
Her saucy lips like cherries glowed; 
Her dancing hair like sunbeams flowed. 
The elder face bore trace of thought; 
Her deep blue eyes with truth were fraught; 
Like snow-white cloud just tinged with red, 
Her white cheek blushed as on she sped. 

They came to meet the dark-browed man. 
Each sought a hand as swift she ran. 
And in those unlike faces came 
A sweet expression — just the same. 
No person could construe their look, 
While each with joy, a rough hand took. 
As meaning less — I must be just — 
Than tender love, and perfect trust. 

Rebuked, I went upon my way. 

As prisoned on a gloomy day 

With naught in view but dingy walls. 

The eye upon a mirror falls. 

And sees a dear friend's face revealed. 

So virtues from my sight concealed 

Were mirrored by those children's eyes. 

Some good that dark face underlies. 

[30] 



EARLIER WRITINGS 



The Old Clock 

It is a connecting link between the days of our 
ancestors and the present. As it ticked then it ticks 
now; with the same exemplary, uniform, indefatig- 
able industry. As it instructed and warned them, it 
instructs and warns us, with the same awe-inspiring 
solemnity. As we gaze upon its dear old face, 
brown with age, and musingly listen to the ceaseless 
beating of its changeless heart, at the sound of a 
feeble footstep, we turn our eyes, quickly and hap- 
pily, to meet the smile of grandfather. But, alas! 
it is not he, and the old clock rings out "never, for- 
ever." It is our father; 

"His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold;" 
he treads the path of his sire. We are linked anew 
to the days of long ago, and we cherish the old 
clock. But while our affection for it as a remem- 
brancer awakes for it our tender regards, another 
feeling, one of grateful respect, bids us touch not the 
old clock. We respect it for its faultless record, 
and faithful warning of the flight of time. There is 
not a footfall of creation's contemporary, but it is 
echoed by the old monitor, while its steady finger 
tells how many noiv\ For years not an hour has 
passed, but its zealous hammer has demanded our 
attention, and it has calmly, steadfastly, solemnly 
stood, with one hand pointing to the hour just flown, 
and the other — pointing upward! 

[31] 



Christian Sympathy 

Christian sympathy is the soul of Christian charity. 
It is the bond which makes an army of the enemies 
of sin. It is the evidence, as it is the overflow of a 
heart full of the love of God, and is to the sinner 
pity, to the fellow Christian brotherly love. It is 
the sweetness of our fellowship, and is, next to the 
influence of the Holy Spirit, our greatest source of 
strength. 

This grace is the gift of God, and like every other 
grace, we enjoy it just to the same extent that we 
exercise it. It is not to be hidden under a bushel; 
it blesses us only when we make it a blessing to 
others: it enriches us most when we extend its of- 
fices most liberally. 

Christian sympathy is a duty, and brings with it a 
burden of responsibility. In the regeneration and 
nourishment of souls, the Holy Spirit has its agents, 
and we are among them. Mankind, though morally 
free, are very much led by influence. And who shall 
say that when the Book of Life is opened, there shall 
not be found there influences, charged with the value 
of immortal souls, which have been the result of the 
withdrawal from some hearts of this vitalizing cur- 
rent. If sympathy prompts us we cannot fail when 
we attempt to express it — it has a language of its 
own. It can easily be distinguished from empty 
flattery, and as easily from heartless alms giving. It 
may manifest itself in very inany ways; a silent tear 
is full of eloquence; a warm grasp of the hand may 
be the turning point of a destiny; a single sentence 
may be better than a multitude of words; and a 
friendly act, performed in the right spirit, has a 
most blessed potency. 

[32] 



Unconverted persons should be made to feel that 
Christians are their friends. Sin should be rebuked 
kindly, and the holy warfare against it should be 
conducted ever in the spirit of him under whose 
banner we march; even of him who spared not his 
own life, and shrank not from the most intense 
sufferings, so greatly did he desire the happiness of 
sinners. 

How nearly indispensable to the young convert is 
sympathy, both on the part of those who have been 
longer in the way, and those who, like him, are 
babes in Christ. And how hard must be the strug- 
gle against loneliness of that one who, having left a 
large circle of worldly friends behind, is treated with 
cold neglect by those in whose society he hoped for 
happiness. A lonely Christian! Reader did you 
ever witness such a paradox, and pass by on the 
other side? Then never let another such heart go 
away unrefreshed. It matters not though he may 
have been your enemy; it matters not though 
hitherto you may have been strangers; now you are 
brethren. Let not false etiquette keep you at a dis- 
tance. Extend to him your hand; open to him your 
heart; enter with him into a friendship from which 
you shall never be the first to withdraw. 

Or do you know a wandering one? Sooner with- 
hold your sympathy from the ninety and nine than 
from this unhappy one; for, oh, how bitter are the 
censures heaped upon him, even by those who, from 
Sabbath to Sabbath are constrained to confess their 
unfaithfulness; and oh how cold it is to be shut out 
from the love and confidence of brethren. Not 
haughtily, but with humility and tenderness, take his 
hand and lead him back to the truth. 

Go to the aged man who feels that he is almost 
alone; that all of his generation having crossed the 

133] 



river, those who bustle about him now, buying, sell- 
ing, laboring, hoping, fearing, weeping, laughing, 
loving, care little for him. Go, and as he awakes 
from a dream of the past, shudders at the reality of 
the present, and turns an anxious eye to the future, 
bid him rehearse the memories he loves to dwell up- 
on, and be a cheerful and attentive listener to his 
story. Rejoice with him in the bright days of his 
manhood's vigor. Then let in sunlight from the 
future. While thus you sympathize with, and be- 
friend him, the old man will live, even in the present. 
Christian, ask not with Cain, "Am I my brother's 
keeper?" You can no more afiford to withhold your 
sympathy from your fellows than you can live hap- 
pily without that of your brethren. Do not encrust 
yourself in selfishness, and strive to go companion- 
less and unsociably on the way to heaven, locking 
in your own breast your joys to be smothered there, 
your sorrows to fester, and grow into morbid 
melancholy. Pray God to give you life, for life is 
love. St. John says, "We know that we have passed 
from death unto life, because we love the brethren." 
And when love burns in your bosom, seek Christian 
fellowship, and learn that the more hearts are 
kindled by it, the brighter the flame in your own. 



Baby 

Sweet little five months old baby! ruddy dawn of 
an eternal life! bright little marriage certificate! 
happy third point necessary to constitute a family 
circle! golden third link in the chain of domestic 
affection and felicity! our more than riches! Think 
it not strange if we forget care and beguile many 
hours in exciting and admiring his laugh and crow 

[34] 



of delight. Do not scorn our belief that this world 
affords nothing like it; for where else on earth is 
human happiness so nearly perfect that it does not 
shiver at the damp breath of the past, as she whispers 
over its shoulder to a dim, ever beckoning shadow 
the silence-veiled future? Let us not grow im- 
patient of his baby sorrows which we do not under- 
stand; for these are the little weight on the little 
plant, which shall grow with, and perhaps, outgrow 
it, and under which it shall, unless God transplants 
it soon, struggle and bow for many years. Nay, 
soothe him most tenderly, and pray that, as sorrow 
grows heavier, he may find a strong, dear friend to 
help bear the burden. 

What would become of the little impotent one, 
were it not for his unconscious power of winning our 
affections? We love him because of his physical 
beauty and tenderness. Those jelly like lips and 
cheeks, softer than velvet, we must be permitted to 
sip nectar from again and again. The inimitable 
and indescribable white hands which he has but 
very recently discovered in his possession, as he 
holds them up to observe their motions, make us 
wish we were more than sculptors, that we might 
catch the dimples before they became knuckles, that 
our eye might never forget a perfectly tapered 
finger, or a perfectly rounded wrist. Then there are 
the surely sought and uncovered feet, with each five 
toes; the plump little arms, with now a dimple at 
the elbow; the barely discernable shoulder-blades, 
which we can almost believe, as did Marion Har- 
land's little Willie, to be wings sprouting; the un- 
doubtedly "high forehead"; and the nose, the subject 
of discussion next in importance to the eye, all of 
which are lovely. But much the greater attraction 
is in the twinkling little orbs at either side of this 

[35] 



uncertain nose, in which we see perfect innocence, 
and the dawning of intelligence and sympathy. 

We love him because of his innocence — love him 
deeply, and with a very reverence. Again we won- 
der at, and dream over every member of his little 
budding body. Now we kiss the lips that never 
gave utterance to lying, blasphemous, or angry 
words, and hold closely in our own those hands that 
never labored in the service of Satan, and fingers 
that never overreached. Peeping from their con- 
finement are the feet that never walked "in the coun- 
sel of the ungodly," and as we press them in our 
hands, we catch a glance from the eyes that never 
discerned iniquity. O, yes; we love him for his in- 
nocence, and so devotedly, that we are startled again 
and again by finding our wish that he might ever 
remain as he is, so near a prayer, that we fear God 
may deprive us of our treasure, and take him to 
himself, that he may keep him ever thus. 

We love him for his dawning intellect. What 
mother does not fancy she sees in her babe a future 
prodigy of genius and intelligence? What father 
does not, in day dreams, behold the lustre that shall 
one day be reflected upon him from his newly ac- 
quired title, father? Yet not in dreams alone do we 
love his little mind. Even when revery gives place 
to reflection, and we assign to our darling a common 
lot, a little mysterious thought, flitting over his 
countenance, unlocks for us a storehouse of precious 
treasures. 

But more than all, our hearts are bound to him 
by the newly discovered bond of sympathy. His 
sweetest of smiles in response to ours, makes us love 
him dearly, for now we see what we believe will 
ripen into affection in returns for ours, growing 

[36] 



more and more deep and strong, till one heart shall 
bleed when the other is wounded, and till the good 
fortune of one can never make the other envy: till 
we shall constantly give each other happiness, and 
find while we give that we doubly receive. Yes; 
dearly is the word now. 

And we love him because he is ours. Mother, 
press your babe to your heart; let his helplessness 
be his shield, and in his innocence strive to open the 
door of his heart to virtue, feeling that he is yours — 
not your property, but your God-given charge. View 
him as immortal, and tremble at your responsibility. 

Thank God that he ever plants these slips from 
heaven's garden here in earth, and tells us, "Of such 
is the kingdom of heaven;" and may he give us 
such faith that we may thank him if he shall see fit 
to transplant them, in their tenderness and fresh- 
ness, to their genial native soil, where they shall 
grow, undwarfed, unbent, and glorious. 



The Spirit of Christ 

"Now if any man have not the Spirit 
of Christ he is none of His" 

What is the spirit of Christ? Behold it manifested 
in his works. Study it there, for who can analyze 
it? Behold with adoring reverence the fullness of 
the God-head, and the perfection of humanity in 
harmony. Bow your head, proud one, and listen to 
the story of his humility, and let an atom of the 
glory of his character crush your pride in the dust; 
and yet, over-modest Christian, behold the dignity 
that sits upon the brow of your Leader. In his 
name hold up your head; a dignity that is consistent 
with humility will well become you. 



Though his spirit is eminently one of peace, still 
he is a bold, constant, and implacable enemy of all 
sin, whether in high places or low. Whether the 
multitude seek by force to make him king, or his 
bitter enemies lay wait for his life, his warfare 
against sin, from which none of these things can 
hinder or divert him, never leads him to a single act 
of hostility to rulers or law. Peaceable, yet with a 
strong arm sending sharp arrows of conviction to 
obdurate consciences, and with a keen eye discover- 
ing the darkest recesses of sinful hearts, he knows 
none too high to receive his withering rebuke, none 
too low to hear his "Sin no more." He is ever ac- 
tive, energetic, laborious. Read his life and blush, 
idler: read his life, and be strong, faint-hearted la- 
borer; read his life and be ashamed, lazy professor 
of Christianity. Mark with what unwavering firm- 
ness he labors to accomplish the object of his mis- 
sion; with what unshaken confidence he asks his 
Father to bring about its consummation; and then 
with what untiring patience he bears all the grievous 
burdens, endures all the cruel hardships and bitter 
agonies in his way, waiting for his hour to come — 
more, infinitely more — waiting 'till "it is finished." 
Christian, ask your Master for so much of his spirit 
that you shall be immovable in his service; that you 
can believe and obtain his promises, trust his provi- 
dence, and await patiently the accomplishment of his 
will. 

Adore his holiness. Subjected to the most fiery 
temptations of Satan, he comes out unscorched. In 
poverty, humility, and suffering, tempted repeatedly 
with the prospect of riches, honor, and ease, mingl- 
ing with all classes of society, with "publicans and 
sinners," yea, with most dangerous sinners clad in 
robes of self-righteousness, his great heart is whiter 

[38] 



than snow, and his communion with his Father is 
never, for one moment, interrupted. Would you be 
possessed of the spirit of Christ? Seek holiness. 

Beneath all other elements of his character, and 
embracing, and pervading all, behold his wonderful 
love. Hope not to comprehend it, for it is incom- 
prehensible. I.et your eye sweep its horizon, and 
be lost in its infinity. Drop in it the line of thought; 
it is unfathomable. Yet explore daily its wealth 
of beauty, plunge in its crystal depths, be healed, be 
cleansed, be permeated with its divinity. Read his 
life, and you will find, as the motive of every action, 
of all his voluntary suffering, this peerless spirit of 
love. The glory and beatitude of his heavenly king- 
dom are exchanged for the humble manger, the ser- 
vice of humble parents, a humble life, for the love 
he bore, to whom? Weep as the answer comes 
from every chapter of his sorrowful history: to 
faithless friends, cruel enemies and persecutors, and 
ruthless murderers. The blind eye, the deaf ear, the 
distorted limb, the palsied arm, the demon driven 
mind, the wounded heart of the widow, the father- 
less, childless, or friendless, and the broken spirit of 
the awakened sinner, breathed upon by this spirit 
of love, are made whole; while at the oft-recurring 
words "Sin no more," the eye of each mind looks 
back in vain upon past life for an explanation of this 
lavish beneficence. Hatred of sin is everywhere 
mingled with love and charity for the sinner. The 
sin-polluted woman shrinking from threatened de- 
struction, is granted a lengthened probation with 
this same solemn admonition; and upon the very 
threshold of eternity, with a life of sin to meet him 
at the bar of God, the penitent thief feels his love, 
and is taken from the cross to Paradise. Even while 
he pronounces woe upon those who have refused to 

[39] 



come to him, the same spirit of love weeps because 
they "would not." Seeking not his own, not so 
much as a place to lay his head, nothing save the 
happiness of making his creatures happy, for our 
sakes we can no more comprehend the agony he 
bore than we could have borne it 

"Praise him all creatures here below! 
Praise him above ye heavenly hosts!" 

Yet, dear reader, "If any man have not the spirit 
of Christ, he is none of his." If in reading his life 
these words impress you with an overwhelming 
sense of your deficiency, let them also administer to 
the growth in your heart of unselfish love and char- 
ity for your fellow-men, and admonish you not to 
trust to your own strength or wisdom. What is it to 
"have the spirit of Christ?" Is it to be like him? 
Yes, more; it is all that the Savior meant when he 
said, "If a man love me he will keep my words: 
and my Father will love him, we will come and 
make our abode with him." O, that we may all en- 
joy the communion of this Heavenly Guest, and pos- 
sessed with his spirit may know that we are his. 



Progress 

Among words, as among men, there are favorites. 
When men become favorites they are invested by 
their various admirers with a corresponding variety 
of character. A popular man is clad by the people 
in a coat of many colors, and near-sighted minds see 
in it only the color of their choice. Words, too, are 
often painted, and like certain shop signs, made to 
appear widely different when viewed from diflFerent 
standpoints. 

There are many bad men who understand this 
fact very well, and take advantage of it. They take 

[40] 



for their use some word which, either from its ori- 
ginal meaning or from association and usage, has 
become so inseparably connected with good to all, 
that its utterance can scarcely fail to find favor, and 
to this they attach ideas to suit their convenience. 
Such snares, when skilfully laid, often accomplish 
much mischief, and draw very many into error. Thus 
even sacred "liberty" has been the battle-cry of 
those who sought freedom from the wholesome re- 
strains of justice: and to "religion" have been at- 
tached ideas whose offspring have been crimes most 
revolting and barbarous. 

Perhaps there is no word which at the present 
day especially in our own country, is more potent 
as an instrument for thus perverting truth than 
progress. The progressive spirit of the age has be- 
come a universal enthusiasm. And with how much 
reason! How can we be otherwise than enthusiastic 
when we view the astonishing achievements of 
science and art during the last half century, on land 
and water, nay, and under the water; when the city 
and the country, the farm, the workshop, the print- 
ing office, the school, the travelers' route, each and 
all unfold volume upon volume of wonders in im- 
provement. It is not strange that, in the midst of 
this rapid rolling river, modernism should come to 
be regarded as synonymous with progress, and pro- 
gress with improvement. 

Yet it is well, now and then, to pause for breath, 
rest ourselves in the seat of reflection, and cool our 
fevered brains with the assurance that this is by no 
means the case. All that is modern is not progress, 
nor is all progress improvement. There are les- 
sons hidden among the ages of the past, to which 
the boasted present would most gladly listen, could 
they but be revealed. Besides, how many failures 

[41] 



we see around us and in history, among would be 
progressionists. Labor, Science, and Art, have wit- 
nessed the fall of many who had struggled long and 
hopefully to ascend: philosophy often speculates far 
from the truth; and theology, though possessed of 
an infallible chart, leaves here and there a wreck, 
the grave of speculative, wandering, or credulous 
souls. 

God has fixed a limit above which theologians 
must not aspire. They must not, for that limit is 
perfection, and beyond that there is no progress. 
He has said, "Heaven and earth shall pass away, but 
my word shall not pass away." Here is a limit, and 
a measure of progress. When we hear bitter com- 
plaints of preaching being "behind the times," and 
loud calls for modern theology, for religion to keep 
pace with the advancement of the age, let us weigh 
well the question whether the professed reformers 
who thus deplore the want of enlightenment in the 
Church, propose to advance beyond this standard. 
If they do, beware of them; if not, let us give them 
a hearing with our measure by us. 

When we hear denunciations of "iron creeds," or 
observe sneers scattered promiscuously upon "the 
creeds," let us see if the fault-finder has not himself 
what he so unsparingly derides, a creed. If he has, 
let us see whether it has not its origin in impatience 
of the everlasting Word of God. 

There is a constantly increasing current of popular 
feeling toward the fatal error that the religion of 
our fathers, nay, the religion of Paul and Peter, is 
not suited to the wants of modern Christians. There 
are shepherds of Christ's flock who find it con- 
venient to adopt certain facts in his Word from 
which to distill the oil of eloquence, which they pour 
out upon the carnal mind as independently of the 

[42] 



fountain of their knowledge, and with as much self- 
complacence as though these facts need not have 
been revealed to their wisdom; while truths no less 
clearly the Word of God fall through the sieve of 
modernism and are not suffered to reach their hear- 
ers' ears. There are fathers in Israel who have 
walked with God a score or two of years, who, but 
for the communion of his Holy Spirit, might despair 
at finding themselves so far in the rear of enlightened 
Christianity. 

We would not undervalue progress on the part of 
Christians, provided it be in God's narrow way. We 
welcome every source of enlightenment which does 
not attempt to enlighten the All Wise Being. We 
listen with delight to any and all improvements in 
preaching, if we may be permitted to hear sermons 
embodying the Gospel — the good news that cannot 
grow old; if the note of awakening be not toned 
down to a lullaby for patron sinners. We can sanc- 
tion innovations in the conduct of religious meet- 
ings, so long as Christ will vouchsafe to be in the 
midst. But there is a spirit whispering "progress" 
to Christians, against which all who love God and 
value their souls will do well to be on their guard, 
trying every spirit, and fearing not so much the 
strength of the enemy as his subtlety. 



"Ye Shall Not Surely Die" 

The assurance of Satan which led our first pa- 
rents to sin, and brought death and ruin upon them- 
selves and their posterity was, "Ye shall not surely 
die." That temptation was a great success. Fiendish 
malice never exulted over so complete a victory as 
was that, in its effect upon the whole future of the 
[43] 



human race. The fallen angel must have drank deep 
of demoniac exultation, when he portrayed to him- 
self the turbulent roll of coming years, black with all 
the impurity over which their waves have swept, red 
with the blood of saints, and breaking perpetually 
upon the rocks of eternal misery. Indeed, so dead- 
ly a blow did he strike at the root of human happi- 
ness and godliness, that had no plan been devised 
to counteract the mischief he had wrought, he must 
himself have been often astonished at the depravity 
of our race. 

Satan has never forgotten the means of great in- 
jury to his Maker's noblest work. From the day he 
beguiled Eve to the present, he has never ceased to 
say to sinners, as he did to her, "Ye shall not surely 
die." It is the most deadly weapon of his warfare. 
His emissaries all wield it. The inhabitants of So- 
dom and Gomorrah heard amid the din of their mid- 
night revels, a merry voice encouraging them with 
these words. The straightened visage of the self- 
complacent Pharisee, while he uttered with godless, 
darkened heart his haughty prayer, heard a voice of 
well feigned sanctity chanting this soothing assur- 
ance. The adherents of Romanism have ever been 
surrounded with means by which Satan has readily 
communicated with them, till they sin recklessly, 
desperately, and still in all the splendor, and in all 
the folly of their "Infallible Church," read, "Ye shall 
not surely die." 

Through the perfumed breath of Pleasure, the 
Tempter whispers it in the ear of youth. All along 
the road to fame, it is written in letters of fire, to 
dazzle the eye of manhood. Infidelity raises a ban- 
ner with this inscription in every tongue. And 
prominent among the agents in the propagation of 
this Satanic contradiction of God's decree, are men 

[44] 



wearing the garb of watchmen, who stand in view 
of the people, and while they listen anxiously to 
know whether there is danger near, say to them, 
"Ye shall not surely die." 

My brother, my sister, "Satan hath desired to 
have you that he might sift you as wheat." Have 
you never felt stealing over you feelings of in- 
difference to the future? Have you never heard 
whispers of security that may be recognized as the 
lullaby of your insiduous foe? Beware! Adam fell! 
Beware! 



Trifling with Little Children 

Wicked inen are first fast men; fast men grow 
from fast boys; fast boys are nothing more than 
spoiled children. God only knows how many of the 
elements of happiness or misery in society at the 
present day are the gift of parents and nurses in the 
generation just past or passing away. God only 
knows how many characters are formed in lisping 
infancy. 

I know two little brothers, children of kind, lov- 
ing, and wellmeaning parents. One is a slender lit- 
tle fellow, seven years old, with a countenance which 
he who studies cannot but love, and which is but 
the index of his disposition; an eye in which his 
Maker has written a sermon such as only he can 
write; an eye before whose look of tender confidence 
a dishonest man cannot but turn away conscience 
smitten and ashamed, and whose melting glance 
would thaw the most frozen heart that would drink 
its light. He is just as honest, just as confiding as 
he looks; he says just what he means, and it is a 
difficult lesson for him to learn that other people do 

[45] 



not do the same. If he loves his little girl play- 
mate, he is perfectly willing to admit it, and cannot 
understand why this should be the occasion of ridi- 
cule. A rude joke wounds his tender spirit, but he 
does not manifest his grief by an outburst of pas- 
sion. A quickly removed tear, or, perhaps only the 
little quivering lip, betrays the hurt his sensitive 
but brave heart is trying to conceal. 

Yet he is not dull. He learns readily, loves his 
lessons, and his teacher loves him. He has a mind 
that it ever observing, ever asking. He knows what 
everything around him is, and what its use is, and 
he can use it. He tries to do right, minds his own 
business, and wonders that his playmates do other- 
wise. Such is William. 

His brother, little Jimmy, is three years younger. 
People say he is "sharp." He is "sharp" enough to 
shear the kitten, cut the clothes line, saw off the 
broom handle, and girdle the shade trees. He 
catches the goslings by the neck, with fatal conse- 
sequences to them, and great consternation to 
"Mother Goose;" puts the cat in the fire; gets out of 
the pew at church; goes forward and puts the 
preacher's hat on, and when pursued by his mother, 
retreats so hastily as to drop the hat and step in it; 
hoes up all the flowers he can, and then asks his 
uncle if he has "been in the flower bed." 

He knows that Willie will not quarrel with him, 
and considers this a great convenience, and acts ac- 
cordingly; when his brother has any plaything that 
he wishes, he begins at once to fight and cry, 
and, of course, soon prevails. In all of these mis- 
chievous acts he is encouraged by the hearty laugh 
and word of admiration, and is even assisted in 
that which he should be promptly dissuaded from 
doing. He is fed with sweetmeats, and petted and 

[46] 



flattered as "one of the boys." While Willie, whose 
trustful heart aches for a word of sympathy, is by 
many considered sullen and stupid. If he hesitates 
to give up every toy to Jimmy, he is called selfish, 
and if he gives it up quietly, spiritless. So he is 
slighted, and pushed coldly aside, till he loses con- 
fidence, not in those who treat him thus, but in him- 
self, and says, thoughtfully and sadly, "there don't 
anybody like me." 

Still these parents love their children, but not as 
they ought. They are so delighted with Jimmy's 
cunning pranks, and so utterly forgetful of the fact 
that the baby mold makes the future man, that they 
not only countenance this partiality in others, but 
even indulge in it themselves. What must be the re- 
sult? In the one case, with this course of training, these 
precious, priceless germs of truth and trust which 
God's own hand has planted in the baby heart, are 
to be wantonly, wickedly trampled under foot of 
thoughtlessness, and the world must be deprived of 
one noble, gentle man. In the other the germ of vi- 
vacity, which careful pruning and culture might 
turn to good account in the man's future, will grow 
by fallen nature and encouraged pride, into the fast 
young man, the tyrannical husband, the unqualified 
father, and is likely to produce a curse in commu- 
nity. 

Little souls are pretty playthings, but ah! so prec- 
ious! Little baby sins are often funny, but must not 
be neglected. A sense of right and wrong is ac- 
quired at a surprisingly early age, and from this 
time baby has a law, and is capable of transgressing 
it. Let parents, nurses and friends of little ones, as- 
sociate their darlings in imagination with the wide- 
spread, horrid blackness of crime and wretched- 
ness that palls upon the present age, and, shudder- 

[47] 



ing at the myriad chances of destruction, throw 
around little children the best and only safeguard, 
discipline. Let them cultivate, and, above all, ex- 
emplify love of right, a sense of mutual obligation, 
and all the little graces which never interfere with 
real, hearty, healthy baby enjoyment, and which 
shall cause the nursery to send forth little cions of 
justice, love, and happiness. 



The First Snow-storm 

Snow-flakes again! Can it be that a year is still a 
year? When we were children it seems such a long 
time; now, it passes like a shadow! How different 
its changes appear to us, too. I can well remember 
the impatience with which we used to wait for the 
first snow-storm. How sagely we philosophied up- 
on the appearance of every cloud that came within 
winter's utmost limits. How we watched the driz- 
zling mist drops of autumn, as in vapory compro- 
mise they floated lightly to earth, stooping ever and 
anon to see if indeed they were not little snow-flakes 
when first they alighted. And when, after weeks of 
impatient longing, the feathery visitor really came, 
how we regaled our eyes with their fantastic cross- 
ings, and eddyings, and dancings. Away up, we 
wondered to see them appear dark instead of white, 
and gazed into the zenith until our necks were lame, 
and our eyes were weary of their insect-like dodg- 
ings. Then we would single one from the swarm, 
and trace its descent till it came softly to our feet, 
or, when near us, rose coyly on the wind, and floated 
to some tall spire of grass, resting upon it, light as 
our hearts. Then our eyes fell upon the ground, 
and we looked long to see it grow white, but so long 

[48] 



in vain, that we at length gladly availed ourselves of 
the suggestion that our sled shoes needed brighten- 
ing, as an excuse for releasing them from their sum- 
mer confinement, and tugging them after us till 
evening brought rest to our limbs, and sleep to our 
eyelids, such sleep as gave us new limbs, and new 
relish for the pleasure of ranging the half-whitened 
fields in search of real sledding. 

The first snow-storm was welcome then; the win- 
ter which it preluded was welcome then; and so 
were all seasons as they came; we rarely mourned 
the departure of present pleasures; the gifts of sum- 
mer as they faded, and drooped, and hid themselves 
under the snow, were cheerfully spared in contem- 
plation of new coming glee. For our youthful vigor 
whispered through every nerve, "There are more 
summers in store for you, and our youthful restless- 
ness cried, 

"Ring out the old, ring in the new" 

This afternoon the cold wind has brought with it 
snow-flakes; at first a few, melting as they came, 
then more and still more, have fallen, fallen, till they 
have wrapped vegetation in a cold white counter- 
pane, as if to freeze and smother the lingering tints 
of life-color from Nature's face; till they have clung 
to the drenched and frozen branches of the trees 
made leafless by ruthless frosts, and rude, bleak 
winds, and now, whitened and drooping, and hung 
with icy tear-drops, they are sighing over the burial 
of their summer beauty. 

Such scenes have lost their old thrill of delight for 
me. A chill creeps upon my heart; and when I look 
upon these first snow-storms, I cannot but be remind- 
ed of the first threads of white that prophesy of 
snowy heads. This death-like pallor in Nature's 
face has its counterpart in pallid cheeks, whose de- 

[49] 



parted roses I have cherished as my life. And the 
bending, decaying vegetation around me, brings be- 
fore me stooping shoulders, stiffening joints, and 
feeble limbs. 

'Tis true, the hearth is warmer now, fireside joys 
are brighter, and the circle at the fireside has a 
stronger, holier influence. Yet even in this, win- 
ter's sweetest oasis, when I reflect that it is the bit- 
ter cold outside that drives us thus together, I am 
sad to think that even now, instead of the world of 
confidence and sincerity which I saw around me in 
childhood, the cold breath of distrust chills the ar- 
dor of affection, and colder infidelity blights friend- 
ships and creates distrust in me, till I sometimes 
fear that in the winter of life, and indeed, before the 
winter, I shall be driven by cold selfish worldliness 
to the fireside for the geniality of affection, that, al- 
though I sincerely wish it were otherwise, the num- 
ber of those whose friendship has proved to be 
"true gold," may yet be comprehended within a nar- 
row circle. 

O, that men would carry their hearts in their 
hands; that there were more frankness in the world; 
that, instead of striving, through policy to speak so 
as to conceal our thoughts, we might speak from the 
fullness of our hearts; that we might see, as did 
Soloman that "open rebuke is better than secret 
love;" that the fact that no man is perfect, might 
lead to the better policy of looking on the bright 
side of character, instead of brooding over faults; 
and O, that the time were to be hoped for, when 
cruel slander should leave at least some friendships 
undisturbed. 

Reader, is the picture too dark? It shall brighten. 
Though it is the cold world that drives us there, 
yet life's winter has a fireside. Though true friends 
[50] 



are few, yet there are true friends. None of us, if 
we seek cheerfully, need fail to find worthy objects 
for our affections, whose love, fanned by cold winds, 
shall ever burn brighter. There is another, happier 
thought: there never was a winter which did not, in 
the end, give place to spring; and he whose life has 
a root which can outlive winter's last cruel storm, 
shall see its desolation melt into eternal spring. 



[51] 



Romanticism in German 
Literature 

LATER CURRENTS, IN THE NINETEENTH 
CENTURY 



Written for the Monday Club 

Fredonia, N. Y. 

1904 



IN making this little excursion in the field of litera- 
ture assigned me, I make no claim to reliance 
upon extensive reading of German authors. If 
I were to attempt to map the territory from my own 
individual investigation, I should have to label al- 
most the whole space "Unexplored Region." I have 
sought the aid of the best critics I could command, 
and tried by their aid and my little reading of some 
of the authors to form some opinions and make some 
digest of the subject. 

I understand my topic as referring to that particu- 
lar movement which is known to literary writers as 
the Romantic Period of German Literature, and es- 
pecially to its culmination in the early part of the 
19th century. At the risk, however, of treading upon 
ground already traversed by my colleague in this 
study, I feel it necessary to go back to an earlier 
period, and very briefly review some of the condi- 
tions, forces and tendencies leading up to the 
romantic movement, as one can not satisfactorily 
study a flower without considering the character 
and growth of the plant from which it springs. 

In the early part of the i8th century some scores 
of little German principalities prostrated themselves 
[52] 



at the feet of as many petty tyrants. The vigor of 
the Reformation period had vanished, and the great 
mass of the people believed meekly in regard to 
political, religious and social questions what a select 
few told them to believe. Literature was most de- 
corously regulated by a very select few pedantic, 
scholastic grandmothers. Two writers upon litera- 
ture are said to have most effectively dominated a 
large part of the i8th century, reigning for a long 
period practically supreme in the realm of letters. 
These were Gottsched and Opitz. If time per- 
mitted I would like to quote some of their utter- 
ances to show how abjectly they groveled in the 
dust of obsequious flattery before certain lordly 
courtiers, and with what cool assurance Opitz, in 
teaching how to write correctly, assigns to their re- 
spective places in literature, with a great gulf be- 
tween them, princes and the nobility on the one 
hand, and the common herd of humanity on the 
other. 

Such stuff as these leaders doled out to them was 
swallowed like doctors' medicine for years and years 
by the great mass of writers, and only now and 
then a mutter of thought along humble lines or the 
occasional turn of some chained genius in his bonds 
broke the general monotony; till, about the middle 
of the century, three great voices were heard in 
Germany that caused the spectacles of the grand- 
mothers to be lifted to their foreheads and their 
hair to rise in astonishment: Klopstock, Wieland 
and Lessing. 

Klopstock was pietistic, intensely spiritual, but 
with bold imagination and a soul aflame with a view 
of the birthright of man he thrilled the age. Wie- 
land and Lessing were rationalistic; both taught the 
possibilities of man's development; Lessing, the 

[53] 



greater, daring to utter thoughts with regard to the 
divinity in man which have profoundly moved the 
world. All three breathed the air and uttered the 
voice of freedom of thought and expression. 

As if startled from sleep, a great number of young 
scholars and literary men awoke to an intense, im- 
moderate enthusiasm for independent thought, and 
there came what is known as the "Sturm und 
Drang," (Storm and Stress), movement. 

I saw once a Gatling gun in which a large num- 
ber of barrels were arranged fan-shaped, so as to 
sweep a wide space at once. So in this Storm and 
Stress movement a crowd of young writers fired 
every man for himself, no two in the same direction, 
with a terrible din, through which everywhere rang 
the cry "Freedom," rending, so far as their efforts 
had power, everything customary, everything ac- 
cording to established order, everything venerable, 
everything sacred. Wieland and Lessing, who were 
still living, must have had their faith in humanity 
sadly shaken it would seem. 

Politics, social affairs, religion, moral principles, 
even moral conduct, were handled as boldly and 
unscrupulously as were political and social entities 
in the French Revolution. French precursors of 
the Revolution, like Rousseau, were influential in 
promoting this furor, but the rage in Germany pre- 
ceded in its mad stage that of France. Yet the lack 
of national organization of the German people and 
the various successful moves of some German rulers 
prevented the actual clash with which the common 
people, and especially great Paris, smote the one 
absolute government in France. 

Like foam and spray upon the waves of a storm- 
lashed sea, there accompanied this Storm and Stress 
[54] 



movement, as a part of it, indeed, the beginning of 
the Romantic movement in the closing years of the 
i8th century, but as the spray dashes highest and 
most spectacularly when the waves beat against a 
rocky coast, so the most characteristic and notable 
stage of the Romantic movement followed the Sturm 
und Drang chiefly in the beginning of the 19th cen- 
tury. 

Napoleon's armies had marched in destruction over 
Europe, Germany had been upheaved and over- 
turned, and the German people stood dazed with 
calamity, confusion, doubt, and dread. There was 
no breath for a national spirit, no certain theme to 
invite the powers of a highly cultured but politically 
and socially staggered literary class. This was the 
rock against which the Storm and Stress movement 
beat, sending to heaven a most unique and pic- 
turesque spray, the Romantic movement proper. 

With such an origin, naturally a distinguishing 
characteristic of this movement was the tendency to 
subjective creative work. Seeing nothing about 
them that awakened their interest except misfor- 
tunes of which they had no heart to write, the liter- 
ary men of the day seemed to retire within them- 
selves and give free rein to their fancy. This was 
their motive power, and the form which literature 
took was a morbid tendency to the sentimental, the 
mystical, the supernatural, the fabulous, the me- 
diaeval, the extravagant. Had we time to open a 
shutter and take a peep over Europe, we should 
find as another reason for its taking this form that 
German Romanticism was but an exaggerated part 
of a movement general in Europe, and should 
recognize in it especially the influence of English 
writers. 

[55] 



Three names may be given as especially repre- 
sentative of the heyday of Romanticism: Novalis, 
who by some is regarded as the father of the move- 
ment, Friedrich Schlegel and Tieck. If you wish to 
become acquainted with the abnormal aspect of this 
school of letters, read Tieck's William Lovell and 
Schlegel's Lucinde as examples of excessive, un- 
wholesome sentiment, and Novalis' Heinrich von 
Ofterdingen for its extravagant fancy. 

Tieck claimed to have had a moral purpose in 
drawing the character of William Lovell, but the 
character displays a depth of absurdity and de- 
pravity which his very late rather unsatisfactory 
conversion fails even to neutralize. Beginning as a 
pure young man in love with a worthy girl, he be- 
moans the departure of the beautiful life of the 
Greeks, but falling in love with an adventuress he 
rapidly sinks to a level indicated by such utterances 
as the following: "I pity the fools who are forever 
babbling about the depravity of the senses. Blind 
wretches! they offer sacrifices to an impotent diety 
whose gifts cannot satisfy the heart. I have pledged 
myself to the service of a higher deity, before which 
all living nature bows, which unites in itself every 
feeling, which is rapture, love, everything, — only in 
the embraces of Louise have I come to know what 
love is, etc., etc." Again: "In truth, lust is the great 
secret of our existence. Poetry, art, even religion, 
are lust in disguise. All life is a wild tumultuous 
dance. Let my wanton spirit be borne aloft by a 
noble bacchantic rage, that it never again may feel 
at home in the miserable trifles of the common 
world." 

Hear a little of his philosophy: "Do I not walk 
through this world as a somnambulist? All that I 
see is but a phantom of my inner vision. All things 

[56] 



exist only because I think of them. Virtue exists 
only because I think it. My whole life is a dream, 
the manifold figures of which are formed according 
to my will." 

The above is evidently a perversion of some of 
the maxims of the great contemporary philosopher 
Kant, who says: "The three fundamental forms of 
all human knowledge, the conceptions of space, 
time and causation, are not determinations or rela- 
tions of things; they are subjective functions of our 
own intellect through which we see things. We 
see things not as they are, but as they appear to us." 

The Novel "Lucinde" by Schlegel is still more 
sickening, as it is utterly without a moral purpose. 
The author says of it: "Nothing would be more to 
the purpose of this book than that in writing it 
he should put aside what is called order and assert 
to the full his unquestioned right to a charming 
lawlessness." This "lawlessness" is found not only 
in the style but in the matter of the work. His 
prominent character Julius' purpose in life is "not 
only to have enjoyment but to enjoy enjoyment." 
Hear this Julius rave: 

"O, idleness, idleness! thou art the element of 
innocence and poetry; in thee live and breathe the 
heavenly hosts; blessed the mortals who cherish 
thee, thou sacred gem, sole fragment of godlike be- 
ing that is left us from Paradise! Why are the 
gods gods if not because they consciously and pur- 
posely do nothing, and are masters of the art? Why 
then, this constant striving and pushing without 
rest and repose? Industry and utility are the angels 
of death, who prevent man's return to Paradise. The 
right of idleness marks the distinction between the 
noble and the common and is the true essence of 
aristocracy." 

[57] 



Novalis' Heinrich von Ofterdingen does not des- 
cend to so low a moral plane as the two works just 
mentioned, but it is more than they, and perhaps 
more than any other, representative of the Romantic 
movement in its madness. The book is genius run 
amuck. The hero of this work, if he may be so 
called, spends his time seeking through the world 
for a mysterious blue flower which he had once seen 
in a dream, a symbol of ideal poetry, and the en- 
tire work, with its jumble of visions, catastrophies, 
and metamorphoses, of past, present and future, of 
life, death and resurrection, is just about as co- 
herent and pointed as a single piece of description 
I now quote from it. 

"They looked down upon a romantic country 
which was strewn with cities and castles, with 
temples and monuments, and which combined all the 
grace of cultivated plains with the awful chasms of 
the desert and a rocky wilderness. The mountain 
tops in their ice and snow covers were shining 
like airy flames. The plain was smiling in its 
freshest green. The distance was merged in all 
shades of blue, and from the darkness of the sea 
the pennants of innumerable masts were flying. In 
the background was seen a shipwreck; nearer by, 
peasants in gay country frolic. Yonder the majestic 
spectacle of a volcano in action, the devastations of 
an earthquake; here a pair of lovers in sweet em- 
brace under shady trees. On this side, a maiden ly- 
ing on her bier, the distressed lover embracing her, 
the weeping parents standing by; on another, a love- 
ly mother with a child at her breast, angels sitting 
at her feet and looking down from the boughs over- 
head. The scenes changed continually and finally 
streamed together into one great mysterious spec- 
tacle. Heaven and earth were in revolt. All the 

[58] 



terrors had broken loose. A mighty voice called to 
arms. A ghastly array of skeletons with black 
standards came down from the mountains like a 
hurricane and fell upon the life that sported in the 
valley. A terrible slaughter began, the earth 
trembled, the storm roared, and the night was rent 
by awful meteors. A funeral pile rose higher and 
higher, and the children of life were consumed in its 
flames. Suddenly out of the heap of ashes there 
broke forth a stream, milky blue. The spectres scat- 
tered, but the flood rose and rose and devoured the 
gruesome brood. Soon all terrors had vanished. 
Heaven and earth flowed together in sweet music. 
A wondrous flower swam resplendent on the gentle 
waves." 

Let us turn to the more pleasing aspect of the 
age, for, although most purely literary work of the 
period was tinged with sentimentality and wild 
fancy, excess did not run riot everywhere. Above 
this apparent chaos Schiller for a time sat serenely 
unfolding in Wallenstein and Goethe in Wilhelm 
Meister their ideals of manhood, while Herder with 
broad vision was working out his prophetic phil- 
osophy of evolution as applied to man as a race, and 
in his relation to society, nationality, art, literature, 
religion, Kant was evolving his profound system of 
philosophy, and a brilliant array of writers of great 
distinction were in the field, of a few of whom I 
wish to take just a glance. 

I present first a name connected with both the 
Storm and Stress movement and the early stages of 
Romanticism — Burger. There seems to me some sug- 
gestion of Poe in him, in his lack of moral balance 
and his weird imagination, though Poe's delicacy of 
imagination is a complete contrast to Burger's 
brusque force as shown in his famous poem 
[59] 



"Lenore," and other similar ones. "Lenore," in 
which a young woman who has lost her lover in 
war, quarrels with God's providence, tears her hair, 
beats her bosom and refuses to be comforted, is 
called for after nightfall by her knightly lover and 
summoned to ride with him a hundred miles be- 
tween eleven and twelve o'clock to the bridal bed, — 
which is described as "still, cool and small, six 
boards and two little boards" — a coffin — seems to 
me rarely, if ever, surpassed as ghost-story poetry. 
Poe's wonderful feat of onomatopoeia in "The 
Bells," is suggested to me by the suiting of sound 
to sense in this poem. Hear the steps of the horse 
and the ring of the door bell as the lover comes and 
calls: 

Und auszen, horch! ging's trap, trap, trap, 

Als wie von Rosses Hufen, 
Und klirrend stieg ein Reiter ab 

An des Gelander's Stufen. 
Und horch! und horch! den Pfortenring, 

Ganz lose, leise, Kling-ling-ling; 
Dan kamen durch die Pforte 

Vernehmlich diese Worte, etc., etc. 

And again when with the maiden mounted be- 
hind the knight on his black steed, they plunge into 
the ride: 

Und hurre, hurre, hop, hop, hop, 
Ging's fort in sausendem Gallopp, 

Das Ross and Reiter schnoben, 
Und Kies und Funken stoben. 

And again when a mob of spirits are summoned 
to fall in their train, hear the rush! 

Und das Gesindel, husch, husch, husch, 

Kam hinten nachgeprasselt, 
Wie Wirbelwind am Haselbusch 

Durch diinne Blatter rasselt. 

[60] 



Jean Paul Richter is a great name connected with 
the movement, and yet hardly of it. Prof. Francke 
calls him the bridge between classicism and romanti- 
cism. The noble efforts of Wieland, Lessing, Goethe 
and Schiller to paint ideal manhood were supple- 
mented by this author of somewhat less merit, who, 
with a great sympathetic heart, opens his arms in 
his novels to embrace mankind as man, high and 
low, great and small, normal and abnormal, and to 
delight in and delight the reader with every speci- 
men by his rare and genial humor. On the side of 
romanticism we place the vagaries of his erratic and 
incoherent imagination and thought, which are so 
great that volumes have been written by his ad- 
mirers in explanation of his meaning, and all his 
critics confess he is a puzzle, and his grouping in 
his works of so many almost unthinkably strange 
characters, yet each taken strongly in his embrace 
as a brother man. 

I believe I shall strike a tender chord in every 
heart here when I mention the Grimm brothers, 
whom the world knows as the compilers of the 
Kinder-und-Haus-Marchen. Here in simple and 
beautiful German are our familiar household tales 
of Cinderella, Rumpelstiltskin, Little Snow-white, 
Little Red Riding-Hood, Hansel and Gretel, etc., 
charming in their childlike, trusting, leaning upon 
Nature for aid, delightful in their love of children 
and their championship of the weak and oppressed, 
excusable on account of their antiquity for their 
grotesque, horrible punishments of the bad, models 
in the chaste simplicity of their style, with their 
simple repetitions, etc., to catch the child's atten- 
tion. 

These little repetitions have" new charm read in 
the original, as when the prince is riding home with 

[61] 



the false Cinderella with bloody toe the doves cry 
out, — 

Rucke di guck, rucke di guck! 

Blut ist in Schuck. 
Der Schuck ist zu klein. 

Die rechte Braut sitzt noch daheim. 

When the second is being borne past with a 
bloody heel, the same is repeated. But when the 
true Cinderella passes with her lover the doves coo 
this variation: 

Rucke di guck, rucke di guck! 

Kein Blut ist im Schuck. 
Der Schuck ist nicht zu klein; 

Die rechte Braut die fiihrt er heim. 

The spirit of these tales is in this sentence from 
Sneewittchen: "Now the poor child was in the 
great forest motherless and alone, so that all the 
leaves on the trees looked on and did not know how 
she should help herself." 

Some deny the Grimms to the Romantic move- 
ment. They were great and life-long students of 
middle age literature and law, great comparative 
philologists, authors in part of the greatest of lexi- 
cons — a Teutonic, not merely German, lexicon — 
which in the hands of successors is still in pro- 
gress but incomplete. And did they not compile 
these tales — whose great merit is that they were 
taken from the lips of the people and only slightly 
modernized and purified in style, merely as a part 
of their scientific research? No; there is ample evi- 
dence that these brothers, who loved each other like 
sisters through a long life, loved children and na- 
ture, and beautiful homelife, and in that spirit did 
this work which makes our cherished firesides of 
today akin to the humble homes of Germany, 

[62] 



where also home is home and childhood is child- 
hood. 

When some of these romanticists got out of them- 
selves and fixed upon some theme worthy of their 
art, they shone with better light. Novalis, the least 
sane as a novelist, in his "Hymns to the Night" — 
poetry in prose form — evinces genius of a marked 
order. Though this work is clouded somewhat by 
his peculiar mysticism and perhaps savors some- 
times of pantheism, his perception of the all-per- 
vading Divine Presence and his fine poetic sensi- 
bility give it a high place in the literature of the 
time. The scholarly Tieck also did valuable work 
in a poetic collection of legends and songs, though 
it lacked the fidelity to the original which dis- 
tinguished the Grimm brothers' work, being weak- 
ened in effect by the addition of his own fanciful 
creations. 

Similarly, a bright eccentric genius of the time. 
Von Kleist, so long as he struggled in the prevail- 
ing subjective way to produce a great drama, failed, 
and in the depth of disgusted disheartenment cries 
out, "Hell gave me my half talent, heaven bestows 
a whole talent or none." But the disasters of the 
German people, which dazed so many, awoke the 
spirit of von Kleist, and he produced many meritori- 
ous dramas in a patriotic spirit, his "Hermann- 
schlacht, which was practically a ringing call of the 
German people to arms in the cause of national in- 
dependence, especially taking high rank in German 
poetry. 

Very much interest attaches to the place in the 
literature of this period which the "Gulliver" of 
Germany, the soldier-adventurer-champion liar, 
Baron Miinchhausen occupies. His marvelous and 
mendacious tales were first compiled by a young 

[63] 



German named Raspe, but were first published, by 
Raspe under an assumed name, supposedly, in 
England, whither he had been obliged to flee under 
some criminal charge. Many editions of the work 
were published in England, and many in Germany, 
the first German one under the auspices of the 
poet Biirger, but perhaps the crowning work con- 
nected with this name is the famous novel Miinch- 
hausen by Immermann. 

One more name I must mention — a name that 
has elicited volumes of appreciative criticism, a 
name placed by scholars only slightly below those 
of Goethe and Schiller — Johann Ludwig Uhland. 
This illustrious poet is properly classed with the Ro- 
mantic school, having been much influenced by it in 
his youth and having always some tendency to Ro- 
manticism. Yet he, like Goethe and Schiller, bore 
himself above its absurdities and aimlessness. He 
was a man with a true heart, a clear head and a 
strong spirit, — a man who possessed the true poetic 
temperament, who wrote always with a noble pur- 
pose, who loved his country and championed, both 
as poet and statesman, national independence, who 
loved home and nature, who appreciated the Ger- 
man people, and who had faith in humanity. He 
was a prolific writer of poetry, and is called by 
Strauss the classic of Romanticism. As a poet he 
is said to stand next to Schiller in popularity with 
the German people, and his writings have been 
largely translated into other languages. Here is a 
bit of his verse that 1 have picked up and give for 
its romanticism. 

Three students were traveling over the Rhine; 
They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign: 
"Good landlady, have you good beer and wine? 
And where is that dear little daughter of thine?'" 

[64] 



"My beer and wine are fresh and clear; 
My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier!" 
And when to the chamber they made their way, 
There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay. 

The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised. 
And on her pale face he mournfully gazed: 
"Ah! wert thou but living yet," he said, 
I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid." 

The second he slowly put back the shroud, 
And turned him away and wept aloud: 
"Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier! 
Alas! I have loved thee for many a year!" 

The third he once more uplifted the veil, 
And kissed her upon her mouth so pale: 
"Thee loved I always; I love still but thee; 
And thee will I love through eternity." 

German thought underwent a reactionary move- 
ment toward the church, and, the Terror of Europe 
being securely caged at St. Helena, national themes 
more and more engaged writers, and the fervor of 
romanticism gradually cooled, until, before the mid- 
dle of the century, it was practically dead as a dis- 
tinct movement. 

But though this particular romantic epoch had its 
day, romanticism is ever present in some degree in 
human thought. At the close of the period in 
literjature discussed this evening, just upon the 
threshold, stood the great poet Heine. He was not 
confessedly of the Romantic school, — indeed he 
fought it tooth and nail, with his wonted combative- 
ness, yet he had in him a marked vein of Ro- 
manticisim. 

I remember sitting one evening on the grounds 

of the Pan-American Exposition, some distance back 

from the lake, where above the tree-tops I could see, 

spread widely over the night sky, the gorgeous dis- 

[65] 



play of exploding, darting, falling stars of the fire- 
works. As I looked, the splendor would grow less 
and less, until at length nothing remained of it but 
a shower of dull, dying embers; when suddenly some 
belated explosive would break forth alone in a little 
delicately colored ball and form a slender train of 
beauty so touching as to move me more than did the 
first splendor. I will close this paper with a little 
gem of romanticism that fell from the brilliant pen 
of Heine when the embers of the Romantic move- 
ment were well night extinct — the little favorite. The 
Lorelei. 

"I know not what spell is o'er me. 

That I am so sad today; 
An old myth floats before me, — 

I cannot chase it away. 

"The cool air darkens, and listen. 

How softly flows the Rhine! 
The mountain peaks still glisten 

Where the evening sunbeams shine. 

"The fairest maid sits dreaming 

In radiant beauty there. 
Her gold and her jewels are gleaming. 

She combeth her golden hair. 

"With a golden comb she is combing; 

A wondrous song sings she. 
The music quaint in the gloaming 

Hath a powerful melody. 

"It thrills with a passionate yearning 
The boatman below in the night. 

He heeds not the rocky reef's warning. 
He gazes alone on the height. 

"I think that the waters swallowed 
The boat and the boatman anon. 

And this, with her singing unhallowed. 
The Lorelei hath done." 

[66] 



OP 



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